The Ford O' War
by juicy-calamari
Summary: Stan fears that the new kid in town is getting too close to Ford. Based on an AU where Fiddleford moves to New Jersey and befriends the twins as kids


**this is one in a series of fiddauthor fics i wrote for tumblr, re-posted here for convenience. enjoy!**

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"I betcha can't make it as far as me."

The proposition came out from underneath the half-submerged boat. Stanford yanked the Popsicle out of his mouth, cherry juices coating his chin. His twin popped up from the side of the vessel, flaunting a tooth-gapped grin. A sandy rock was placed into his palm.

"Don't wuss out on me, Poindexter," he proclaimed. Ford eyed the stone curiously, rocking it back and forth. Weight wasn't too bad. Maybe it could even be considered as decent for skipping with.

He peered down at Stanley. "What would I get if I beat your distance?" Stan seemed to ponder this for a moment, hands digging into his jeans' pockets. Suddenly, an arm shot up; his index finger directed towards the orange-saturated sky.

"All the baseball cards in my sock drawer!" he offered.

Still lounging on the edge of the Stan O' War, Ford pouted. Sports didn't exactly align with his interests; he probably couldn't even NAME one of Yankees, let alone any other well-known baseball players.

Stan was quick to read him as he added, "Or, uh… That funny-lookin' skull thing I found in Trenton."

His brother's entire demeanor shifted as he eagerly slid down the ship's arch to get to ground level. A sticky Popsicle was thrust before him.

"Hold my Icy Pop, will ya'? I've got a skull to win," he stated triumphantly. Stan didn't have much of an option as the half-melted treat was forced into his grasp.

Red syrup oozed down onto his fingers, but he didn't mind much. Living in New Jersey for twelve years, he's held things much more gross before. He quickly climbed into the boat, wanting to get a better view of the throw.

Stanford bolted down the beach, nearly tripping over the discarded soda-cans and used cigarettes that jutted out of the sand. He approached the shoreline, starting to feel the cold waves graze the tips of his toes. The distant squawking of seagulls overlapped the sound of water spattering against the coast.

Squinting into the afternoon sunset, Ford mentally calculated his trajectory before hurling the rock as hard as he could.

The rock plopped with a splash about two feet in front of him and sunk into the water's salty depths.

Giggles erupted from dry land. "Gee whiz, Ford!" he called out between fits of laughter. "If Pops saw what I just saw, he'd be bawlin' his eyes out!"

"I don't know, he can throw better than I can."

Stan wheeled around at the abrupt voice to find a scrawny kid about his age staring at him through thick circular lenses. A bulky textbook was pressed against his overall-covered chest. Stanley sneered at the trespasser before bending over and grabbing a sword made shoddily out of cardboard. He pointed the weapon at the boy's neck.

"Halt! Who dares to come upon the Stan O' War without an invitation from its' captain and/or co-captain?" he yelled, proceeding to poke him.

The boy looked bewildered and scratched his head, fingers combing through his dirty blonde curls. Ford's damp feet made soggy tracks in the sandy ground as he ran uphill towards the outsider.

"You made it!" he exclaimed, slinging an arm around him. Stanley lowered his blade down.

"This a friend of yours?" he asked Ford. Jealousy manifested in his tone. Stanford, oblivious as usual, didn't quite catch it and nodded wholeheartedly.

"It's the new kid, remember? Fiddleford just moved here, like, a week ago!" he explained, pushing the kid slightly forward. Stanley scowled at him.

"That's a dumb name," he muttered loud enough for the two of them to hear. "And how were you able to find us?"

Fiddleford was aware of the aggression in Stan's posture and tugged Ford's arm, shrinking slightly behind him. Ford directed a forbidding glare up at his twin.

"I invited him here," he stated.

Stan's shoulders drooped out of spite. "You told him about the Stan O' War?! That's our thing! Off-limits to everyone except for us," he argued, folding his arms.

"You brought Carla McCorckle over here just last Friday, and I didn't complain!" Ford barked.

"That's different! She said that she'd hold my hand if I showed it to her!"

Fiddleford uncomfortably shifted sand around with his sneaker, amidst the sibling bickering. Finally, he worked up the courage to interrupt them.

"Is this a bad time…?" he questioned neither Stan in particular. Stanley opened his mouth to say something- most likely snarky- when Stanford cut him off.

"No, no. My brother's just having a tantrum is all." That seemed to set him off. The remainder of Ford's defrosted Popsicle was launched over to the playground area by a red-faced Stanley. He stormed off past the boys, purposely shoving his twin out of his path.

"I'm goin' home," he spat, bawling up his fists. "Have fun on the 'Ford O' War' by yourselves."

Both Ford and Fiddleford watched in silence as Stan climbed up towards the parking lot, visibly steaming. The boards of sailboat creaked under their combined weight as Ford dragged his friend towards the bow. He took a seat; clenching the wooden beam behind him. Fiddleford reluctantly plunked down next to the boy, still cradling the textbook in his arms.

Tawny rays of light hit their backs, silhouetting their small, sitting figures against dusk-bound New Jersey sky. Fiddleford toyed with the frayed edges of his book.

"Uh… your brother ain't gonna beat me up if he found out I came on here, right?" Ford snorted, despite the question being dead serious.

"He's just lip-flapping like always. Stan might come off as a jerk at first, but it's kids like Crampelter that you gotta look out for," he replied, putting a repulsed emphasis on the bully's name.

"That one fella that wears camouflage to school?" Fiddleford cut in.

"Yeah. He picks on me and Stanley all the time, and never gets in trouble for it cause his mom's a teacher! It's just not fair. He comes over here every week to make fun of us and our boat… I hate it, a-and I hate him!"

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. Stanford choked them down, not wanting to look like a crybaby in front of his new playmate. But Fiddleford seemed to be understanding of his predicament, as sympathy outlined his expression.

"I hear ya. I been havin' tough times fittin' in myself, you know. Bein' from the South, lotta kids here expect me to be pea-brained or something. I dunno. Maybe it's the accent." Ford let a teeny smile work its' way across his mouth. He laid a hand on his book; fingers curling around the cardboard spine.

"Then I guess it's good that we met each other, then. Otherwise we'd be friendless on top of being freaks- no, n-no offense," he stated.

Fiddleford shrugged and openly ogled at his friend's hand… with an extra digit.

"I don' mind none. But your hand… it's so cool. I haven't seen anything like it before in my whole life!" he insisted. Ford beamed at the compliment.

"You.. you really think so? Most people just think the extra finger is creepy."

"No way!" Fiddleford cried out, examining his hand more closely. "If anything, it makes you special! More special than that Crampelter ditz."

Special. His mother was the only one who had ever used that word to describe him: he always assumed it was just out of obligation. But hearing it out of someone's mouth, someone who wasn't related to him- that made it all the more genuine.

Ford threw an arm around his classmate once more, startling him out of his state. "Welcome aboard the Stan O' War! I dub thee- associate co-captain," he declared in a lowered tone. Fiddleford adjusted his glasses, looking uneasy as his eyes darted around.

"But… Stanley…?"

"Stanley'll be fine, once he stops being a big baby. He just doesn't trust people as easily as I do! Give it a couple of months and he'll like you. You know, eventually. After I start bringing you along on our mystery hunts!" Stanford remarked, jostling him around a little.

"'Mystery hunts'…?"


End file.
